


All in a Day's Work

by msred



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, F/M, Future, New York
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msred/pseuds/msred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Puck really enjoys his job, and not just because sometimes he gets to put his hands all over clients as hot as this one. New York A/U.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in a Day's Work

His job is kind of, well, _unexpected_. He started out (well, once he finally actually got started, that is, and it took a few years, only because he had no fucking clue what he wanted to do and hell, no point in wasting his money and everybody’s time going to college or whatever when he had no real purpose) heading for physical therapy or maybe like, sports medicine – training, something like that. And even that was mostly, but not completely, out of left field. It kind of made sense though, that he’d fall back on something kind of sports-related once he realized that he loved music and performing in like, that low-key, small stages in dark bars, kind of way, but it wasn’t what he realistically wanted to _do_ with the rest of his life. Only, it didn’t take him long to figure out that all the people in his program – the instructors _and_ the students – were way too fucking serious about everything. And like, he gets it, okay? Those jobs aren’t necessarily life or death, but they’re dealing with, ya know, people being able to use their bodies the way they’re used to doing and, in some cases, even being able to continue to do their, like, livelihood. So yeah, he couldn’t blame them all for being serious. But it just wasn’t him. He still liked the idea behind it all, though, and by the time he’d decided to leave the program, he’d actually gotten into some of the _real_ classes, and he liked that stuff too. So, he compromised. (Only, not really, because he actually really loves his job and therefore doesn’t look at it as a compromise, now.) Massage therapy seemed like a good choice; he’s still doing the same type of work, which he enjoys, but his only real responsibility most days is to make sure his clients walk out relaxed and happy, not that they _can_ walk.

“Puck,” his bitchy co-worker, Santana, kind of spits out at him as she walks by, “you’re up. Gotta client in the relaxation room. Don’t know how you scored that one.” And yeah, okay, the whole spa deal is kind of cheesy, with the ‘relaxation room’ and the low instrumental music and the soft, fake voices they all have to talk in when clients are around, but it’s a nice place – one of the nicest in the city in its price range – and the clients are basically always happy with everything, which makes his job about a million times easier.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Because her comment could really go either way.

“She’s fuckin’ hot, that’s why. Thought you were only getting’ the oldies, the fatties, and the dudes after The Incident.”

There was no ‘incident.’ Not really. The client approached _him_ at the bar a few days after her services. She was plastered and thought that since he’d had his hands all over her just a few days earlier, she should get to return the favor. (No seriously, she used those exact words.) He’d been with a handful of people from work at the time, and Santana, being the bitch that she is, thought it would make great conversation in the employee locker room at work the next day. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong, didn’t break any laws or written company policies or whatever – so it’s not like he could be fired, or even reprimanded or anything, but the appointment books have definitely been stacked – _not_ in his favor – ever since the story got back to his boss.

“I guess I been a good Jew lately,” he smirks, “the Big Guy’s smilin’ at me.”

“Yeah, well, you better go get her before I swipe this one. Her stats and order sheet are on the table. She’s ready to go.”

“I’m on it, Satan.” He gets up off the bench he’s been sitting on and kind of rolls his shoulders a bit, cracks his knuckles, then heads out to start his first appointment of the day.

“Katie … _Morosky_ ,” he stumbles over the last name a bit. He knows that’s not her real name, ‘cause one, it takes her a second too long to look up, even though she’s the only one in the room, and two, her face is all over the Broadway posters and shit all around the part of town the spa is in. And yeah, Santana was right, it’s a nice face. Better than nice. Big, chocolate-brown eyes, Jewish nose, full, pink lips that are practically fuckin’ edible and that spread into an awesome smile when she looks up at him. Great hair, too. Long and dark, and so soft-looking. (It’d look even better fisted between his fingers, but that’s a dangerous thought.) But all that’s forgotten when she stands, ‘cause she’s just wearing running shorts and a t-shirt, but already he can tell how amazing her body is underneath – her legs alone have him thinking about baseball stats and his 200-pound bear of a woman boss in a bikini in order to avoid letting ‘Katie’ see what he really thinks of her. He really hopes she’s one of those who likes to keep her eyes closed and just lose herself in the massage and not one of the ones who wants to be super-aware of everything he’s doing, ‘cause once she’s on that table close to naked (all the way naked?) he won’t be able to help what his body decides to do. It’d suck if she noticed and got pissed or whatever.

“Hi.” She sounds a little nervous, looks it, too, with her eyes darting all around. “I’m Katie.”

_No you’re not._

He hides his smirk. “Noah Puckerman. I’ll be your massage therapist today. Have you ever had a massage before?”

“Yes,” she nods a little timidly. “But not hot stone. And not … by a man.”

He smiles as warmly as he can – it’s not something he has a ton of practice at, he’s more of a smirk kinda guy – and tries to be as like, comforting, as possible as he leads her toward the locker room. “Well, I assure you, Ms. … Katie, I’m a professional and I take my job very seriously.” That part’s true. “You have nothing to be nervous about.” That part, maybe not 100% true, if his dick doesn’t get itself under control. “But for now,” he stops at the locker room door, “I’m going to leave you here. You just go in and dress down to your level of comfort for a massage. Take your time, there’s no rush.”

“I … Am I …” she’s stammering, and he ducks his head so she doesn’t see him smirk, he likes that he’s making her nervous, even though he probably shouldn’t, “Do I get naked?”

“That’s really up to you ma’am. It’s whatever you’re comfortable with.” Then he adds, with one eyebrow lifted and just a hint of a smirk on his lips, even though he knows he shouldn’t, _professionally_ speaking, “But obviously, the less you’re wearing, the more skin I can get my hands on.” Her blush starts at her neck and spreads quickly, covering her whole face, all the way to the tips of her ears, and even down under the neck of her t-shirt. He’s imagining how far it goes – just how much of her smooth, otherwise tanned skin is now glowing pink – when she drops her eyes and slips into the locker room without saying another word.

He doesn’t even hear his buddy Mike, one of the ‘Relaxation Specialists’ (dude’s a fuckin’ ninja with Jedi mind powers, if you ask Puck) come down the hall behind him until he’s saying, “Watch it buddy, we don’t need another Incident.”

“Screw you, man,” Puck mumbles under his breath, quiet enough so that he knows ‘Katie’ or any other clients who might now be in the locker room or the Relaxation Room can’t hear him. “I’m just bein’ honest.”

“Okay,” Mike laughs and keeps walking.

Puck’s scowling at Mike’s back when ‘Katie’ comes out of the locker room in one of the big, fluffy robes they have for clients, and he hopes he clears his face fast enough for her not to notice.  “Ready?” he asks her quietly. She just nods and gives him this cute little smile that he can’t help but return. “Then right this way.”

He leads her to his room and tells her that he needs her to go ahead and take off her robe and get on the table face-down, and he has to fold his hands in front of his waist because he feels his dick twitch when he tells her to get ‘between the sheets.’ He tells her he’ll give her a few minutes to get ready, then closes the door behind him on his way out. He leans against it and closes his eyes, drawing in a long, deep breath as he does. At this rate, it’s going to be a very long, hard appointment. Pun intended.

He gives her (and himself) about three or four minutes before he knocks on the door and asks if she’s ready for him. (In those words.) At her quiet, “Yes,” he opens the door as little as possible – he doesn’t want to expose her to anyone who happens to pass by the room – and slips in. She’s lying there on her stomach, and with the blankets pulled up over her all he can see is her shoulders and the top of her back, but it’s just as sexy as he expected it to be. Her skin is crazy smooth and just from that pretty limited view he can tell how tight everything is on this girl – in the good way, not the way he’s supposed to fix.

“I think you’re really gonna like the hot stone,” he tells her when he’s standing by the table, close to her head, running his hands up and down her back over the blankets with fairly minimal pressure. “Everything’s a lot better when it’s _hot_.”

Okay, he knows he’s playing with fire a little bit; he’s definitely saying things he wouldn’t say to any other client, and he’s already talked more than he ever does during an appointment, unless forced by some old biddie’s incessant questioning about what he’s doing, but fuck, he can’t help it. He knows he can’t actually _do_ anything, but she’s right in front of him looking the way she does and he’s got to at least have a little fun with it. When he folds the blankets down to her waist (and so far, no hint of panty) and rubs the lotion on his hands to begin rubbing her down, he definitely lingers a little across the small of her back and over the sides of her ribcage, with just his fingertips and a much lighter touch than is typically called for in a massage. She doesn’t say anything about it, though, and he sees goosebumps pop up all over her arms. He’s pretty fuckin’ proud of that, actually.

He gets his first really good, full look at her when he steps back to get a couple stones out of the warmer. He kind of just rakes his eyes over her back and the curve of her ass under the blanket as he juggles the stones a little in his palms until they’re cool enough to put on her back without like, shocking her.

“I’m gonna use the stones now,” he tells her as he steps back up to her, standing just above her head. She lets out this _sound_ when he runs his hands, stones cupped in his palms, down the length of her back. It’s half moan, half whine, and all pleasure. (He’s torn between praying she doesn’t lift her eyes and see what she’s doing to him and actually hoping she does.) “Too hot?” He knows better, and he thinks she might even be able to hear the smugness in his voice.

“Perfect,” she kind of purrs back at him, and all he can think is, ‘ _yeah she is.’_

He works on her back for about 15 minutes, his fingers dipping a little farther around every time he runs his palms up her sides. He doesn’t do anything _wrong_ , technically speaking, doesn’t really cross any lines, but he’s definitely tiptoeing – tap dancing, even – right there on the line. But she doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t know if it’s because she doesn’t know any better – doesn’t know this isn’t exactly how massages typically go – or because she’s enjoying it as much as he is. He’s kind of leaning toward the latter. She’s not really making any sounds, but he feels the sighs she keeps letting out, the way her body moves under his hands.

When he finishes on her back, he reluctantly pulls the blankets back up and places two stones on top of the covers, right on her spine. He’s definitely spent a little more time on her than normal, but he doesn’t have another appointment until after lunch and the walk-ins can wait. Looks like ‘Katie’ is getting some bonus time today.

He moves down to her right leg, pulling the cart with the stone warmer with him. He lifts up the corner of the blanket and pulls it over so that her entire leg is exposed, from the tips of her toes up to the bottom curve of her ass. He just stares for a few seconds because this chick is tiny – she came up to like, his shoulder when he was walking her in – but that leg just seems to go on forever. It’s fuckin’ gorgeous, too – nice shape, flawless skin. He knows he has to get on with it though, so he rubs some more lotion between his palms before starting the process all over again; the light rubdown, the progressively harder pressure, the stones. He’s still a little more adventurous with his touches than normal (she shivers a little whenever he throws in a lighter, almost teasing touch every now and then), but he’s also way more careful than he’d been on her back. Skimming a little side-boob is one thing, it’s something completely different when you’re messing around near a woman’s business.

Puck finishes the right leg and moves on to the left, and when he’s moving the blanket up and out of the way, he sees just the tip of a black and white polka-dotted string peeking out from under the blanket at her hip. So – not totally commando then, there’s a bathing suit under there. But the way he’s been moving the blankets around, and as much skin as he’s seen, and this is the first hint he’s gotten that she’s wearing anything at all – that’s one skimpy ass bikini. Somehow that’s sexier than the idea of her being completely naked, and if the stiffness inside his briefs is any indication, his dick agrees.

He tries to speed up the process a little for the rest of the massage (and by ‘speed up’ he means work at a normal pace rather than lingering on each part of her body for much longer than necessary), and barely lets his fingertips skim under the blankets at her chest when he has her on her back (and he almost chokes when he thinks of it that way, because _God_ does he want her on her back) and is working on her neck and shoulders. She never opens her eyes, but he can see them flutter a little when he does wander just a fraction of an inch – a couple centimeters, at most – into the area he’s kept covered.

When he finishes, he moves away from her and doesn’t speak until he’s at the door, his back to her and his head turned to talk to her over his shoulder, just in case she opens her eyes while he’s talking.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t even have to force it this time because his throat is so tight with all the tension he’s been holding back, “I’m going to step out now so you can get up and put your robe back on. Just meet me right outside when you’re done and I’ll walk you back to the locker room.”

He closes the door behind him and pulls a water for her out of the little fridge that’s hidden inside the ‘antique’ wooden cabinet in the hall. He grabs an extra one as well and presses it to the back of his neck. They keep the massage rooms cool because the clients lie under those blankets the whole time and because nobody wants to massage someone who’s all hot and sweaty, but right now he feels like he’s about to combust from the inside out. It could have been below freezing in that room and he’d still feel like all his nerve endings were on fire.

“Mr. Puckerman?” he hears from behind him, and it’s all quiet and timid and even a little breathy, and so damn sexy. Clients don’t typically remember, or at least they don’t typically _use_ his name, but he’s so fuckin’ glad she did, ‘cause he loves the way it sounds falling off her lips. He can’t help but imagine it just a little more breathless and just slightly higher pitched. And louder – much louder.

“Hey,” he starts, before catching himself. “Um, yes, are you ready?” He slips back into his ‘massage therapist voice’ pretty seamlessly, but he sees just the tiniest smirk on her lips at his slip.

“I am,” she tells him, still a little timid, but stronger than before.

“Right this way, then.” He starts to lead her back toward the locker room (and he knows she has to know how to get out on her own, there’s really only one way to go, but it’s company policy to stay with the client all the way to the locker room, where Brittany, whose entire job is to look cute and make the clients feel happy and peaceful, picks them up after they’ve changed and takes them back down to the lobby  – all part of the experience, or whatever) and as she walks nearly right alongside him, she slips one hand into the pocket of her robe and he sees the green as she’s pulling it back out.  “Oh, no ma’am, you pay at the desk.”

“I know,” she tells him, and suddenly she’s looking up at him through her eyelashes, coy rather than shy, and her voice is lower than before and _fuck_ she’s sexy. (She was sexy the whole time, but damn.) “This is just for you. For … your exceptional service.”

She presses the bills into his palm and at the same time runs her thumb over the back of his middle finger, from the knuckle to the tip. He’s never been so thankful (and fucking pissed, at the same time) to see Brittany as he is when she chooses that moment to come bouncing out of the locker room, because if she hadn’t, and if ‘Katie’ hadn’t pulled her hand away when she did, he might just have had an Incident for real and gotten his ass fired.

“Hi Katie! Did you enjoy your massage today?”

“I did,” ‘Katie’ tells her, keeping her eyes locked with his. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Brittany tells her as she wraps an arm around her shoulder and starts to lead her into the locker room. “Puck really is wonderful, isn’t he?”

“The best,” he hears her say just before she gets in so deep he can’t hear her anymore.

~.~

It’s not like his day could really go up from there, but it was cool, ‘cause he was on such a high for the rest of the day that nothing, not even his 65-year-old two o’clock appointment, could bring him down. So when he lets himself into the apartment when he gets home, his mood is fucking stellar.

“Hey baby,” he calls once he’s shucked off his shoes and put them away in the hall closet. None of the people at work, except Sam, who’s awesome just ‘cause he knows how to keep his big mouth shut (no really, his mouth is literally huge – ironic, right?), know he’s married. Hell, none of them know Rachel exists at all. He’s pretty sure they all think he’s some immature bachelor playboy. And yeah, okay, that is what he _was_ , but he’s not anymore. He just doesn’t talk about himself at work at all because likes keeping his personal life personal, and it’s not like he has the kind of job where she’s going to just pop in to say ‘hey’ in the middle of the day. And the times he’s gone out with them on the weekends after work or whatever, she’s always been at the theater and not able to make it. So they just don’t know. It’s not a big deal or anything; he’s only met like, two of her castmates, though he was at every show opening weekend and at least once a month since.

“Hi,” she’s practically purring as she sidles up to him, coming in from the living room and wrapping her arms around his waist to rest her chin on his chest and look up at him. Coming home to this nearly every day would have been practically enough to get him to propose, except he had about a million other reasons too. They’ve been married seven months, since just a few weeks after he finished school, and he’s been at the spa since about a month after that, and this hasn’t even started to lose its appeal yet. He doesn’t think it ever will. “How was work?”

She’s looking up at him and her face is pretty blank, but her eyes are twinkling. “Fuckin’ awesome,” he tells her. “My first client was this sexy as hell little brunette and I got to spend an hour puttin’ my hands all over her. What about you, how was your day?”

“Incredible. I had the best massage.”

“Oh yeah?” he growls the way he can’t help but do when she gets under his skin, because he was pretty sure this is where this was headed, but now he’s completely sure, and that’s like, the best news all day.

“Mmhmm. My therapist was amazing. He had the best hands,” she brings her own hands to cover his on her hips and runs her dainty little fingers over them – up and down each of his much larger ones, along every vein. “I could’ve melted every time he touched me.”

“S’good.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums again, running her fingers now up and down his forearms, a little bit farther each time. “One problem though,” she looks up at him with a (fake) put-out pout, “the massage was lovely, but I’m still _tense_.”

“Yeah?” He smirks and tightens his hands on her hips, pulls them against his own.

“Yes,” she nods, her big brown eyes blinking all innocent. “While his touch was simply amazing, there was one area that he neglected, and I was really hoping it would get some attention.”

God. He’s going to die. Right here and now, he’s going to fall over dead. Because this is the woman he married and she’s so fucking awesome and he gets to have her for the rest of his life. He says a quick prayer to God or Moses or whoever’s listening that that’s at least until he gets her to the bedroom and finishes what he has planned for her, what he’s been thinking about all day, what _she_ started. (It’s only fair to her, really.)

“Anything I could help with?” His voice is low and gravelly, and he knows how much she loves it like that.  “I’m not bad with my hands. Got some other thing’s I’m pretty good with, too.”

She starts to pull away from him, grinning all sexy and backing toward the bedroom. “You know, you just might be able to.”

“Well then, let’s get you taken care of _, Ms. Katie_.”


End file.
